Twelve Thirty

it's thirty past midnight. unable to sleep. a chair. a liquor. a star. a sky. perfect ingredients for poetry writing.

On the veranda he was there sitting:
Mind closed; eyes wide awake.

He saw the sky was clear
Yet only one star was there:
Twinkling, smiling, savoring
In its perennial shining.

It was a lonely night for the star.
It was a lonely night for the man
Sitting on the veranda.
The moon was gone.
His face woebegone.

He was left there in his solitude.
With a heavy mind and a heavy heart,
That little chair is deemed to break apart!

There was lull and languor
In the mind of the man now holding a liquor
He wanted to bury inside himself
And soothe his heart that’s broken apart.

There was hum and lullaby
As his thoughts fly by-and-by.

He could not quite fathom
The depth of human introspection
That beyond the stars it goes
Yet inside his mind
It is trapped in woes.

Like the mind, the night never sleeps
And on the veranda he was there sitting:
Eyes closed; mind wide awake.

It was twelve thirty.
Alas! It was yet another day.



Dec 4, 2006

Author's Note

Another poem from the past. The past that keeps hounding me. :-)